George Alec Affinger - The Zork Chronicles

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THE ZORK CHRONICLES

Delve into the challenge and adventure of the world of

ZORK

with the fantastic imagination of

GEORGE ALEC EFFINGER

"We (science fiction writers) stand in awe of a writer so young, so strong, so good…."

Harlan Ellison

"Wry, inventive, nearly hallucinatory…"

Publishers Weekly

"Great entertainment…"

Fantasy Review

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George Alec Effinger

THE ZORK® CHRONICLES

A Byron Preiss Book

AN INFOCOMTM BOOK

AVON BOOKS NEW YORK

Zork: The novel is an original publication of Avon Books. This work has never before appeared in

book form. This work is a novel. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

Special thanks to Marc Blank, Dave Lebling, Richard Curtis, Rob Sears, John Douglas, David

Keller, and Alice Alfonsi.

AVON BOOKS

A division of

The Hearst Corporation

105 Madison Avenue

New York, New York 10016

Published by arrangement with Byron Preiss Visual Publications, Inc.

ZORK and the INFOCOM logo are trademarks of Infocom, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 89-92497

ISBN: 0-380-75388-X

Cover and book design by Alex Jay/Studio J.

Cover painting by Walter Velez

Edited by David M. Harris

whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Byron Preiss Visual

Publications, Inc., 24 West 25th Street, New York, New York 10010.

First Avon Books Printing: July 1990

AVON TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES, MARCA

REGISTRADA, HECHO EN U.S.A.

Printed in the U.S.A.

To Rob Sears of Infocom, and Brett Sperry, Mike Legg, and the rest of the gang at Westwood

Associates, who have made my own Infocom game, Circuit's Edge, a reality.

And to David M. Harris, the editor whom I tormented with this manuscript.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I'd like to mention that I used two reference books extensively in creating the characters as well as

devising the progression of their adventures. The first of these books is The Hero, by Lord Raglan,

published by New American Library in March, 1979. This is a classic study of the common elements and

themes that occur in the "biographies" of heroic characters from myth and fiction.

The second book is The Hero with a Thousand Faces, by Joseph Campbell, published by

Princeton University Press in 1968, which attempts to find a single, coherent pattern among the many

heroic quest myths from around the world.

I've always found such literary analysis and synthesis fascinating, and I've always wanted to use

these two references as the basis of a fantasy of my own. I'll be the first to admit that Zork is not on the

same level as, say, the Arthurian cycle; but if anyone becomes interested in writing a long, critical study of

this work, I can often wax eloquent upon the subject over a free lunch.

CONTENTS

Prologue: Die Göttercocktailpartei

Chapter One: We Can't All Be Heroes

Chapter Two: The Importance of Being Brave

Chapter Three: A Traveling Companion

Chapter Four: The Myth of Wickedness

Chapter Five: Hell's Twice the Labor

Chapter Six: A Dead Man's Embers

Chapter Seven: Waiting for Santa

Chapter Eight: Glarbo Speaks!

Chapter Nine: Not Doing Nothing

Chapter Ten: A Better Class of Enemy

Chapter Eleven: The Formula for Success

Chapter Twelve: A Proof of Genius

Chapter Thirteen: Inspiration, Inc.

Chapter Fourteen: Good Grounds and Bad

Chapter Fifteen: Fathers and Sons

Epilogue: Die Göttercocktailpartei II

The composite hero of the monomyth is a personage of exceptional gifts. Frequently he is honored

by his society, frequently he is unrecognized or disdained. He and/or the world in which he finds himself

suffers from a symbolical deficiency. In fairy tales this may be as slight as the lack of a certain golden ring,

whereas in apocalyptic vision the physical and spiritual life of the whole earth can be represented as

fallen, or on the point of falling, into ruin.

— Joseph Campbell

The Hero with a Thousand Faces

> Kill troll with sword.

> You can't see any sword here!

— Message in Zork I

PROLOGUE

Die Göttercocktailpartei

There were supposed to be some eager acolytes meeting Glorian and taking him right to the hotel;

but of course the acolytes never showed up, and Glorian had to find his way on his own through one of

the hugest stations in the supernatural world. He trundled his two heavy suitcases and felt ever more as if

he should have just skipped the entire weekend. He could have stayed home and dabbled at the human

pursuits he found so rewarding. He could have worked some more on his book, for instance: A

Guardian Spirit Speaks to Troubled Teens.

The fact that the awards banquet was in the Valhalla Hilton didn't improve his mood. He hated

having to come to Valhalla for these stupid banquets. He preferred the alternating years when they were

held in the Elysian Fields. At least the food was a lot better. Valhalla was cold and gray and blustery no

matter what time of year you came, but for some reason the Campbell Awards banquet committee

always picked the grimmest weekend of the year. It was even grimmer if, like Glorian, you were one of

the anxious award nominees.

Finally, Glorian got his luggage up to the Registration Desk of the Valhalla Hilton. The desk clerk

looked down at him as if Glorian had stumbled into the posh establishment expecting to find a soup

kitchen. "Yes?" said the desk clerk. There was a world of "No" packed into that single syllable.

"Glorian, party of one. I confirmed my reservation three months ago."

The desk clerk riffled briefly through a plastic box of index cards, then punched a couple of keys on

a computer keyboard. He looked up at Glorian with a broad smile of absolute satisfaction. "Sorry, sir,"

he said, beaming, "nothing here at all under that name."

"Having some trouble, young man?" came a deep, booming voice from behind Glorian's left

shoulder. He turned around and was shocked to see one of the supernatural world's greatest and most

influential members, Shiva the Destroyer.

"Well, actually," said Glorian, a little abashed in the great being's presence, "they seem to have lost

all record of my reservation."

Shiva gave a loud hmmph that wobbled the stone columns of the Valhalla Hilton. "Happens to me

all the time, too. I think they get some kind of perverse pleasure out of it. These desk clerk types have no

idea of the kind of afterlife that could be waiting for them." He glowered at the frightened desk clerk for

several meaningful seconds.

"Mr. Destroyer," said the desk clerk in a small, strangled voice, "I seem to have cleared up the

problem just this very moment." He produced a card, had Glorian sign it, and punched a button that

caused a computer printer to spit out a page of information no guest ever read.

"Thank you, sir," said Glorian to Shiva.

The destroyer laughed, causing another frightening rumble in the huge lobby. "I was a young

supernatural being myself once. I remember what it was like. You're Glorian, aren't you? One of this

year's Campbell Award nominees?"

Glorian's eyes opened even wider. He was amazed that such a personage as Shiva the Destroyer

would recognize him. "Yes, sir," he said.

"Well, good luck in the voting, son. But remember what they always say: It's an honor just to be

nominated."

"You bet," said Glorian.

Glorian had picked up his key and luggage and was heading off toward a bank of elevators, when

Shiva's gruff voice stopped him. "You know, quite a number of influential people have their eyes on you.

This weekend could be the beginning of something very important for you, whether or not you win the

Campbell."

Glorian carried his bags up to his room, wondering what Shiva had meant by that. He assumed it

would all be made clear eventually, because that was the way things tended to work out with The

Powers That Be.

The room itself was okay, in a minimal way, although certainly not worth what Glorian was paying

for it. The entire wall opposite the king-size bed was a window, but when Glorian pulled back the

drapes, there was only a kind of opaque, moiling murk beyond the glass, and a few tiny words in the

bottom right-hand corner: This space intentionally left blank. Glorian shuddered and closed the drapes

again.Except for the bed, there was only a bureau, a chair, a television, and a closet. On the door to the

closet was a framed sign that told him what to do in an emergency. "In case of fire," the occupant was

reassured, "do not panic. After all, you may be invulnerable. If after several minutes you discover that you

are in fact beginning to burn, you may exercise any of several options. First, this may be only Magic Fire,

in which case you will only fall asleep for centuries and centuries and be awakened with a kiss. The

management of this hotel makes no guarantee that the fire you encounter will be of this variety. Second,

the fire may actually be Zeus or Marduk or one of the truly major personages who frequently accept the

amenities of this hotel, and they may be merely attempting to seduce you in their typically obscure way. In

such a situation, your response is best left up to your own moral posture. However — and this point

cannot be stressed too highly — it may indeed be that the fire is just regular old fire and that you are in

serious danger of dying in a horrible conflagration. Our advice to you in this third scenario is: Don't.

Escape will seem like the most profitable course of action, even to the dullest-witted." Below that, in tiny

letters, were the words Powers That Be Printing Office. Publication No. 0154-G.

There wasn't much else to see in the room. When Glorian turned on the television, there were only

two channels operating. One played a rerun of a once-popular sitcom called "All-Father Knows Best,"

which pretended to portray what daily life among the Powers That Be might conceivably be like. Today's

episode featured Ed Asner in the role of Oceanus, who was a lazy Titan who just lay around in his

sea-bed all day until his wife Tethys, played by Carol Kane, came in and announced that she was going

to get a job singing with a Cuban dance band. Glorian had seen the episode at least three times before,

so he changed the channel. The other one that worked gave information about events at the Valhalla

Hilton. It said that the cocktail party preceding the Campbell Awards ceremony would begin shortly, and

that all award nominees were entitled to two free drinks.

Two free drinks sounded good. He didn't even bother to unpack his bags, but just tossed them into

the narrow closet. Whatever secrets were hidden in the bureau would have to wait until later that evening.

Glorian stopped briefly in the bathroom and glanced at his reflection in the mirror. As a middle-level

supernatural being, he had the ability to change his appearance at will, and this talent had come in very

useful on some of the difficult and dangerous quests he'd been assigned in the past. Now, though, he

thought it best if he assumed the guise of a modest, friendly, generally charming young man. If he needed

to change sex or size or particular attributes later, that could be accomplished easily enough. As he

pocketed his room key and stepped out into the hall, he looked like any bright young man who wanted to

talk to you seriously about buying into a time-share apartment.

Glorian was pleasantly surprised to meet an old friend while he waited for the elevator to take him

back down to the lobby. Her name was Amitia, and she was a supernatural helper of heroes of about the

same rank as he. She was lovely, with her long blonde hair done up with strings of pearls, and she wore a

shimmering gown of silver. "Glorian!" she cried when she saw him.

"It's been a long time, Amitia," he said.

"When was the last time our paths crossed? It was on Earth, wasn't it? In the future? When you

were leading that old woman on some senseless quest, and I was traveling with that bright young man

and his lecherous uncle."

"The three of you were dragging a Vanguard missile behind you!" said Glorian, laughing.

"Nobody ever said these missions had to make sense. Not to us, anyway. They're always

life-and-death matters to the poor, misguided heroes, though."

Glorian jabbed again at the elevator button. "Just think how much easier our life would be without

the heroes."

"Really? How? What would we do?"

He stared at the beautiful non-real woman for a moment and then shrugged. "I don't know. But I'm

sure the Powers That Be would think of something."

The elevator arrived just then, and they entered. Amitia pressed the button for the lobby. "Nervous,

Glorian?" she asked.

"About what? The Campbell Award? Hey, I've been nominated nine times before, and I've never

won. The first couple of times, I went along with everybody who kept telling me 'It's an honor just to be

nominated.' Now I just want to win one of those suckers."

"Some of us have never been nominated, not even once," said Amitia glumly.

"It's politics," said Glorian quickly. "It's who you know."

The elevator reached the lobby before they could discuss the matter any further. There was a

comfortable bar in one corner of the hotel's lobby that was filled with other non-existent, mythical

characters, and Glorian and Amitia took a table near the entrance. A waitress dressed as a medieval

woodland sprite came over and took their orders. "Gin and tonic," said Glorian.

"White wine," said Amitia.

"Typical," said the woodland sprite in a sarcastic tone. She turned her attention to another party of

customers.

"She could at least have left us a bowl of peanuts or pretzels," said Glorian.

"What's the matter?" asked Amitia. "You are getting nervous, aren't you? Admit it! This whole

Campbell Award thing has you climbing the walls!"

"What are you talking about?" asked Glorian. "The Campbell Award? I don't care that much for the

Campbell Award," he said, snapping his fingers. "And besides, there are plenty of other qualified people

nominated this year. It wouldn't be any disgrace to lose to Polylapidus or the Hanged Frog or

Isvahaken."

"What about the Princess Dawn des Malalondes?" asked Amitia with a smug leer.

Glorian's path had crossed the princess's before, when he learned that her real name was Narlinia

von Glech, and that she was about the phoniest, sleaziest, slimiest sylphidine in Creation. "Well," he said,

sipping at the gin and tonic the supernatural waitress had just left at his elbow, "there's very little chance

of that, is there? Everyone knows Narlinia. I think my real competition is Polylapidus. The Hanged Frog

is maybe just a little too melodramatic, if you know what I mean, and Isvahaken shows real talent, but

just hasn't had enough exposure yet. Maybe next year."

"So you do care?" said Amitia, sliding her glass of white wine nearer.

"Of course, I care," said Glorian. "Winning the Joseph Campbell Award for Best Semi-Actual

Persona is what we all aspire to. It could make my career. It could lift me out of the dull range of

supernatural sidekicks and into the category of demigod or even better! Sure, I want to win, but I've

been here often enough in the past to know that, well, if I don't win, the world won't come to an end."

"Sometimes it does," said Amitia, swallowing a little of her wine. "There was that time that Chilean

thunder-god, Pillan or something, lost and got so disappointed and angry that he just clapped the universe

out of existence. Then the committee had to get together and start everything from scratch again, and they

put in those new by-laws —"

"You know I'd never do anything like that. These awards just don't mean so much to me. They're

—" "Hush, Glorian!" murmured Amitia. "They're going to start!"

There was a podium set up at the front of the bar, and the current president of the Supernatural and

Fantastic Wayfarers Association tested the microphone. It was Savitri, the Indian golden god of the sun.

He tapped the microphone and murmured into it. "Everybody hear me all right out there?"

"Yes, yes," muttered Glorian in an ill humor. "Just get on with it."

"Well," said Savitri, "we had a guest speaker lined up for tonight, but before she could come up

here to address our group, she apparently ate a few pomegranate seeds and was carried off to the

underworld. We're still trying to sort that all out. In any event, in the meantime, I think I'll just get right to

the matter at hand, this year's Joseph Campbell Award."

There was a smattering of applause, and Glorian realized that he was feeling very lightheaded. He

decided that the cure for that was a couple of sudden gulps of gin. The next thing he knew, Savitri was

tearing open an envelope and announcing —

"And the winner is … Narlinia von Glech, the Princess Dawn des Malalondes!"

There were a few boos, some smatterings of applause, and quite a loud ripple of murmured

comment. Narlinia von Glech stood up, looking like a reincarnation of a 1940s Hollywood beauty queen

in her long, dark hair and tight red, sequined gown. She made her way as quickly as she could to the

microphone, where she spoke briefly about how proud she was to win the Campbell Award, and how

she hoped to live up to its standards, and how much she wished her father had lived to see this day, and

how very much she loved everybody. Her voice sounded exactly like Edie Adams doing Marilyn

Monroe.

"I don't believe it," said Glorian. "I just don't believe it. It must have been some kind of strange

voting conspiracy. People casting their ballots on the basis of breast size rather than genuine craft and

dedication. I just wonder how many actual missions Narlinia completed last year." He'd turned aside, not

even watching Narlinia's performance at the podium. Savitri handed her the Campbell Award, the bronze

mask of a god, and Narlinia gushed some more, then wiggled her way back to her own table.

"Can we go now?" asked Glorian.

Amitia laughed. "Come on, Glorian, at least be gracious. You've got to congratulate her."

"Why? Do you see the Hanged Frog being gracious?"

"Glorian," said Amitia with a frown, "if you don't congratulate her everyone will notice, and you'll

just get a big reputation for being a sore loser."

"I am a sore loser," he said grumpily. "This is the tenth time I've lost." Nevertheless, he made himself

get up and ease his way to Narlinia's table. "Congratulations, Narlinia," he said, his eyes pointed down at

the tiled floor. "You know that I wanted to win that Campbell Award myself, but if I didn't get it, then I'm

glad you did."

"Ooh, that's just so sweet, Glorian!" Narlinia cooed. She leaned forward, putting dangerous stresses

on the upper buttresses of her sequined gown, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

"Now can we go?" muttered Glorian.

"Now we can go," murmured Amitia.

All the way from the bar to the elevator, people stopped Glorian again and again, telling him that it

was a shame he hadn't won the Campbell Award, but that it was an honor just to be nominated. "You

bet," he said each time. He'd really begun to hate hearing about it. He told Amitia that he had a terrible

headache and that he just wanted to go upstairs alone and get some rest. They made plans to have

breakfast the next morning.

Upstairs in his room, Glorian unpacked his bags in the bureau drawers, turned on the television, and

then stretched out in his mythic underwear to watch an episode of "My Mother the Slug," with the voice

of Bea Arthur as Ka'apiti the World Slug of Ghidan. He had started to doze off to sleep when the

telephone rang. "Hello?" he said, yawning.

"Glorian, there is an envelope for you in the upper left drawer of the bureau."

"Who is this? I just unpacked my things, and there wasn't an envelope in that drawer."

"There is now," said the mysterious voice. There was a jagged sound, and then Glorian was listening

to the dull burr of the dial tone. He shrugged, got up, and went to the bureau. He opened the top left

drawer, and there, on top of his socks and underwear, was a white envelope. He tore it open and read

the sheet of paper inside:

Glorian, here are instructions for your most important mission. You must meet a hero by the name

of Mirakles by the usual old white house. You must help him regain the vital Switch that has been dipped

in gold. The fate of this and every other reality depends on your courage and devotion. Good luck to you,

and may God bless.

He'd received many other directives in his career, most of them in mysterious white envelopes just

like this, but in every case, those orders had come from The Powers That Be.

This one bore the mark of the signet ring of the Autoexec himself. Glorian tossed the paper on the

bureau, lay back down on the bed, and watched the end of "My Mother the Slug." The fate of universal

reality could wait until morning.

CHAPTER ONE

We can't all be heroes because somebody has to sit on the curb and clap as they go by.

— Will Rogers

Now, Glorian isn't the hero of this tale, not in the sense of the guy who carries the broadsword and

takes all the risks. In fact, the authentic hero, Mirakles of the Elastic Tendon (at least, that's the best way

of rendering his epithet into English) was having a little trouble finding his way through a deep, dark,

mysterious forest. Gloomy, threatening woods were nothing new to Mirakles, of course, so he wasn't yet

getting the least bit uneasy. He was just getting bored, which was one of the occupational hazards of the

broadsword-toting caste when there was nothing nearby to hack and hew. Mirakles had been through all

this before; he was certain that sooner or later a giant bat or something would cross his path.

How would a great poet like Homer or Byron describe Mirakles? It's impossible to say, naturally,

but we could make a modest beginning by mentioning that in the physique department it would have

taken at least two of the Greek or Trojan warriors to be his equal. Say, Achilles and Ajax together, and

you could have a little change back. That's how huge and strong Mirakles' arms were, that's how

barrel-chested he was, how broad and great his back, how powerful his legs. And he was of fine

features, too, for a wandering swordsman — after all, was he not the son of Desiphae, queen of the

Sunless Grotto?

And we haven't even mentioned his sword yet. Let's talk about that for a moment. When Mirakles

was but a stripling, his father, King Hyperenor, passed on to the boy a mighty weapon that had been in

their family for centuries. "Take this blade and guard it well," said the king, "because it will always stand

you in good stead. It is the fabled sword Redthirst. Its edge is keen and fashioned with a magic that has

nothing to do with hammer and anvil. The steel is guarded by sorcerous incantations, and you will never

be defeated in battle so long as you remember three things."

"What three things are they, Father?" asked young Mirakles, stricken with awe by the terrible

beauty of Redthirst.

"Your mother knows. Before you slay your first dragon or band of brigands, talk to her. Now go

away. I am an old king, and soon you'll have to take my place, ruling our people wisely, showing up for

strawberry festivals, all that kind of lunacy. This afternoon I think I will put on my ceremonial feather

headdress and go boar hunting all alone without my courtiers and no weapon but a pointed stick."

Mirakles was shocked and for a moment forgot his place. "Father, that's stupid! Why would you

even think about doing such a thing?"

King Hyperenor just gave his young son a sad look. "Another thing you'll learn as you get older is

that this is the way old kings move things along so history can happen."

They looked at each other for a moment, and then Mirakles understood. He gave his father a

strong, manly embrace, took the magic sword Redthirst, and went to find his elusive mother, Queen

Desiphae. Mirakles never saw his father alive again, and on that very day he changed from a headstrong,

impulsive boy into the shrewd, courageous, taciturn hero it had always been his destiny to become.

His mother had been very mysterious when Mirakles questioned her about Redthirst. "The first

secret," she'd told him on that sad, long-ago day, "is that this blade will provide you greater protection

against supernatural and demonic enemies than against mere human villains. Whenever you're in the

presence of a supernatural enemy, the sword will begin to grow warm in your hand and there will be an

aroma as of bread baking."

"Bread baking, Mother?" asked Mirakles, puzzled.

Queen Desiphae waved her hand in dismissal. "All right, it's not very warlike, I admit. I suppose you

wished the sword would shriek aloud or sing to you or something. I'm sorry. You've got to learn to take

what you're given."

Mirakles was duly chastened. "Yes, of course, Mother," he said. "And the other two secrets?"

"You'll learn them when you need to know them."

Mirakles stood and regarded the Queen of the Sunless Grotto with a calculating expression. "Then

this is the end of my education?"

"Yes, my darling son."

"And there will be no further magical gifts or ointments or spells or purses of gold or anything else?"

The queen shook her head sadly. "The great sword Redthirst is our family's one great treasure."

"Ah," said Mirakles. He bent to kiss his mother's brow. "I'll be off, then. I'll leave you as regent of

this great underworld realm until my return. I hope soon to have won my own fair kingdom."

"Yes, of course, my son. Good fortune attend thee. Take a sweater."

Mirakles slung Redthirst in its great scabbard across his back. "Well, so long," he said, and he left

his mother sitting on a rock in the middle of her unplumbed pool.

Now, years later, he was thrashing noisily through a dimly lit forest. He was using Redthirst to hack

his way through the underbrush, when suddenly he felt the sword's hilt turning hot in his strong right hand.

Mirakles' eyes narrowed, and he turned around slowly, searching for some leather-winged, fanged fiend

to attack. He saw nothing but the trees. "By Thrag!" he shouted in his strong, deep voice, "I know you're

waiting for me in cowardly ambush. Come out and face the wrath of Mirakles, son of Hyperenor!"

There were some gentle rustling sounds from overhead. "Hey!" cried an old man's voice. "Is that

you? Baking bread down there?"

"By Thrag, show yourself and you'll soon learn the difference between a baker and a master

swordsman!"

Mirakles heard more branches swish above his head, and then he saw a small, round-shouldered

old man dressed in a brown leather jacket and brown leather trousers. The old man was climbing

painfully down from the very top of the tree. In one hand he carefully protected a few small objects. "I

don't know," said the old man in a hoarse voice, "it's just not clear to me why a person couldn't be both a

baker and a swordsman."

Mirakles looked the little man up and down, then sheathed Redthirst. "Because both callings require

a lifetime of dedication," he said.

The old man laughed. "Only if you want to be great at one thing or the other. Me, well, I wouldn't

mind being just an okay baker and just an okay swordsman. The rest of my time I could spend however

I chose."

"Like climbing trees in lonely forests?" asked Mirakles suspiciously.

"Possibly. You're not the only man on a mission around here, you know."

"What makes you think I'm on some kind of mission? I'm not, you know. Anyway, my sword tells

me that you're not a human being. What were you doing up in that tree?"

The old man held out his hand. "Malted milk balls," he said. "There's a bird's nest up in that tree

that's empty now. I was putting some malted milk balls in it."

Mirakles was feeling more exasperated with every question and answer. "Why, in the name of

Thrag?" he thundered.

"Somebody has to do it," said the old man, shrugging. "Let me introduce myself. My name is

Glorian. Glorian of the Knowledge, actually. And you were quite correct, I am a supernatural being, a

kind of mythical helper to adventurers on heroic quests. I've been assigned to give you a hand."

Mirakles was so astonished that his mouth dropped open. "I'm not on any kind of heroic quest," he

said. "I already told you that. I'm just out on my own, living day to day. You know, looking for fame,

fortune, a kingdom to conquer, the hand of a beautiful princess. Nothing more. You must have the wrong

man."Glorian shook his head. "Trust me on this. Very soon now, you'll receive what we in the trade refer

to as The Call to Adventure. From then on, you'll be glad to have me around. I have lots of useful

magical talents."

Mirakles laughed, a deep, booming sound. "Magical talents? A little, wizened-up old man like you?"

Glorian joined in the laughter without anger. "I don't have to look like this, you know," he said. "I

chose this appearance because I thought it was appropriate for our relationship at this point. I can easily

change it if you don't like it, though. I can be young or old, male or female, human or some scungy,

roiling, fetid cloud of interdimensional horror."

Mirakles thought that one over. "Why don't you just stick with the kindly old gnome look for a

while?"

"Fine. My knees complain when I put myself through this, but you can't have everything."

Mirakles took a deep breath and looked around at the forest again. "So here we are. How do you

plan to help me? I mean, if I was actually on a heroic quest — which I'm not, remember — but if I was,

what would you do first?"

Glorian reached into his jacket and pulled out a pamphlet. "Here," he said, giving the literature to

Mirakles, "this is standard. Look it over later when you have a few minutes."

The pamphlet's cover was a light gray color. The words on it were printed in blue. Mirakles had

some trouble sounding them out. "Heroic Behavior," he read haltingly. "Some Do's And Don'ts. Powers

That Be Printing Office. Publication No. 6014-B."

"I'm sure you know most of that stuff already," said Glorian. "And next, I suppose I should get us

out of this forest. The house should be right over there." He turned and pointed south, then started

marching along a narrow path. He didn't even wait to see if Mirakles was following him.

"Hey," cried the hero, "who do you think you are, handing me this stupid pamphlet? As if I need

helpful hints on heroing or something! I was rescuing maidens almost before I knew what a maiden was.

Hey! Wait a minute!"

The path widened until it entered a clearing. There was a white house in the clearing. It had no door

on the north side, but workmen were busily tearing down the boards that covered the windows.

"Renovation!" said Glorian. "And about time, too."

There was a billboard on the property that advertised 3 Rms Barrow View, Spacious Downstairs

Excellent for Playroom, Etc. A number of prices covered the billboard, each lower than the previous

one, all of them crossed out. Now a poster slashed slantwise from lower left to upper right and

proclaimed Coming Soon! Casa Blanca Condos! Only 6 Left! Below that was the address of the

Frobozz Magic Realty Company, a wholly-owned subsidiary of Frobozzco International.

"As I recall, this used to be a pretty marketable parcel of real estate," said Glorian, leading Mirakles

around behind the house to the east. "There was serious talk of constructing an entire community to go

with it, with a school, a shopping mall, a massive Cosmoplex for car shows and auctions of sofa-sized

art, and all that sort of modern convenience. Today, though, there's still only the house, but at least

Frobozzco seems to be taking an interest in the property."

"What's Frobozzco?" asked Mirakles.

"Well," said Glorian, frowning, "Frobozzco is the parent corporation of a million little specialized

companies, whose board of directors seem to be made up of interlocking combinations of the

Implementors, who function just beneath the Powers That Be, who are supervised by the Autoexec."

"Ah," said the brawny hero. "So if I want to make my mark quickly in this world, I should just skip

all those intermediaries and face down this Autoexec in person."

Glorian and Mirakles walked around the third side of the house, where there was another path back

into the foreboding forest. "I'm not entirely positive that the Autoexec is at the very top of the corporate

ladder, if you understand my meaning. I just know that I get occasional memos from him, and I've

learned not to ignore them. Furthermore, the intermediaries, as you called them, generally won't let

themselves be skipped."

"By Thrag!" shouted the wrathful Mirakles. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Let's just finish walking around the house. There's a mailbox there that I want to check."

"Fine," said Mirakles sulkily. "And then I want to kill something. I want to rip something to pieces

and then char it over a fire and eat it all bloody and raw in the middle."

Glorian looked off into the distance, where the tall trees were bending in the stiffening breeze. "I

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